


True Fit

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Hannibal is a virgin size queen, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys, Will is hung, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: Hannibal’s fixation on size has seen him reject every lover to date.Will’s endowment makes him avoid relationships for fear of hurting his partner.It all works out in the end.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 64
Kudos: 296





	1. Golden Underwing

"Your colleagues don't agree with your assessment," Hannibal said. 

Will stared from his chair at the gleaming leather of Hannibal's brogues. The last crime scene was only hours ago, and it was good to focus on something that wasn't a bruise-covered corpse. 

"Can't blame them,” he said. “A killer smothering his victims with the weight of his body isn't something they've come across before."

'Are they prejudiced against novelty?"

"No. They just can't relate," Will said, and frowned. 

Hannibal cocked an eyebrow. He was waiting for Will to continue. He'd braided his hands over crossed knees, index finger tapping soundlessly over a knuckle. His suit today was a striped blue deep as midnight, with a waistcoat to match. His socks were a dark chocolate brown. Why had Will's brain chosen, in that very moment, to notice how slim his ankles were? 

"The first kill, Jodie Klaas, was an accident," Will said. "After that, this guy resigned himself his fate.”

"And what fate is that?"

"He decided he must have been built for violence. He now believes his body only permits intimacy through harm."

"And how do you relate to the idea of bodies inherently built for violence, Will?"

Will looked away quickly from the shiny shoes and the slim ankles. Hannibal's stillness and the hush of his office often plucked from Will confessions he never would otherwise let loose. But this, this he couldn't bring himself to talk about. Even if he had an answer ready. 

A thin, papery noise was coming from somewhere in the office, near the windows — or was it in Will's head? He felt tired, frayed, the long day of fieldwork shredding his synapses. Hannibal's elegant shape six feet opposite was the only thing keeping him together, like a false but reassuring reflection. 

"I believe we have a choice not to exercise certain physical endowments," he said at last, by way of evasion. "For the sake of others." 

Something passed over Hannibal's face, a subtle gleam that Will had come to recognise as curiosity. Or maybe fascination. 

"At what price this lack of exercise? Don't we have the capacity to reinterpret our corporeal gifts as forces for good?"

There it was again: the faint fluttering. Will shifted again in his chair and rubbed at his temples. “Please tell me I'm not the only one hearing that."

Hannibal watched him for a moment, then glanced over to the windows. "I believe we have a visitor. Will you assist me?"

At that, he was on his feet and drawing back the tall striped curtains. Will saw it soon enough: high up from the floor, a small dark shape twitching against the glass, wings backlit by the dusk and streetlight outside. A moth. At least Will hadn't imagined it. 

"Please fetch a tumbler glass from the console table by the door," Hannibal said. "There is paper in the top drawer of my desk."

"Can't you just let it out?"

"I'd like to examine it first."

Of course he did. Will sighed and went in search of the required moth-trapping objects. When he returned to the window, Hannibal had produced and was setting up a short wooden step ladder. He'd also removed his suit jacket.

"Will you hold on to the steps for me?"

Will did. Hannibal ascended and reached up to stalk the fluttering shape over the pane with the crystal tumbler. Will's ladder-holding duties put him closer to Hannibal than he'd ever had cause to be, close enough to smell his cologne. Hannibal's shoes creaked against the steps as he rose up on tiptoe. The back of his waistcoat was a gleaming satin, smooth in places, creased in others. Something in Will's brain wanted to lean his weary forehead against it.

Glass scraped against glass. Hannibal stretched up further, away towards his catch. The ladder gave an alarming wobble and Will's hands scrambled up from the wood to land squarely on Hannibal's waist. 

The ladder steadied and the moment froze, or at least it did inside Will's head. He swallowed. His hands twitched against satin and wool but refused to budge. Hannibal's waist beneath his palms was solid but surprisingly slight. The cinch at the back of his waistcoat had come loose.

Hannibal glanced down over his shoulder to Will's hands. He had the moth trapped securely between paper and glass. 

"Looks like we both made a successful catch," he said with a faint smile, then began his descent. 

Will took the opportunity to put his hands into retreat and back onto the ladder where they belonged. 

Hannibal held up his captive to the light to show Will. The moth flung itself frantically against the carved crystal then settled to the bottom. 

Will's palms still felt warm. He stuck them in his pocket as if hiding evidence. He tried to put the moment behind him as he focused on the occupant of the tumbler glass. The creature fluttered again, and Will saw the bright streak of yellow under the drab grey and speckled brown of its top wing. 

"It's a false underwing," Hannibal said. "See the flash of color beneath its ordinary exterior?"

"Yeah. The ordinary exterior is what keeps it from getting eaten."

Hannibal raised another smile, a vulpine flash of canines and nothing more. "Attract mates or get eaten, an all too common dilemma in Nature. Shall we eat it or let it go off and dazzle?"

Will's laugh startled him. "Just— let it go, please."

Hannibal passed him the glass. "You do the honors."

Will pulled the window open and watched as the moth shot out into the autumn dusk, making one final show of its golden underwing before merging with the drab sky. When he turned back, Hannibal was leaning over his desk. He was writing. 

Will flushed. What exactly had Hannibal deemed noteworthy in tonight's appointment? Will's thoughts on the Klaas case, the incident with the moth? Will's slippery hands? 

The clip at the back of Hannibal's waistcoat was still undone.

"You have—" Will said before he could think. 

Hannibal glanced up from his notebook and saw Will gesturing to the small of his own back. "Ah," he murmured, and reached back for the loose strands of the cinch. 

Will was still by the window, aimless and hovering. Something about Hannibal blindly refastening the clip sat unwell with him. Nothing about Hannibal should have been awkward or graceless. He was just about to open his mouth to offer to finish the job, when the discreet office clock chimed for the end of the hour. 

Hannibal closed the notebook and slipped back into his suit jacket. "As we were interrupted by our winged friend, I would normally offer to let us continue," he said.

Will was already moving for the door, reaching for his coat before he heard the inevitable _but_ coming at the end of that statement. "S'fine, we can carry on next week."

"Will."

Hannibal's voice stopped Will's hand on the door handle. He glanced back, uncertain.

"I meant that I'm happy for us to continue over dinner instead. I do have a reservation, but my company for tonight has cancelled." 

Will's hand slipped from the door handle. "You don't look too upset about it." 

Hannibal tidied away his notebook, all of Will's secrets inside it. "I'm unsurprised. Ian has a sliver of your perceptiveness, and I suspect he guessed what tonight held in store."

Will's own perceptiveness stuttered for a moment, then whirred back into focus. 

"Was it going to be one of those 'it's not you, it's me' conversations'?"

Hannibal walked over to him slowly, in a direct line and in long measured steps. Will felt suddenly skittish. 

"In this case, it was very much him," Hannibal murmured and reached an arm past Will, towards the coat rack and his own coat. "Well then. Will you take his place?"

Will let himself picture it for a moment: being at Hannibal's side outside the backdrops life had so far painted them against: the structured theatre of Hannibal's office, the nightmare dioramas of crime scenes, the clinical blandness of Quantico's halls and labs. Somewhere quiet and elegant, somewhere he would feel safe uttering new confessions not destined for any notebooks. 

No. It was just his death-frazzled brain again, leading him towards impossible comforts. He shook his head.

"I'd better get home. See you next week."

Hannibal regarded him for a moment, then gave a single courtly nod. "Very well. But you must promise me one thing."

"Sure."

"If this killer you're seeking becomes too unbearably relatable, call me. Or come see me. I promise to fit you in." 


	2. Secrets and surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter includes a brief mention of possible rape / sexual assault.

Will didn't recognise the motorcycle or the figure in his headlights until he was almost to the house. The man sat on his porch got up and gave him a wave and a grin. 

Will swore under his breath and briefly considered turning back around. In the end, he got out of the car. 

“Hey, Tom.”

"Hi. Thought you might want some company."

Will didn't. After a long day in the company of corpses, cops and a psychiatrist who made him think too much, the last thing Will needed was a visit from a hook-up who left in a hurry two months ago. He could smell the Jack Daniels on Tom’s breath as he passed him on the porch. 

"Did you get my texts?" Tom asked hopefully. "I brought some beer." 

Will didn’t answer. Maybe if he kept quiet and kept on moving through his evening routine the man would miraculously evaporate into thin air. He unlocked the front door to let the dogs out. They weaved past Tom with only the odd sniff of curiosity. 

"Thought maybe you got the wrong idea about last time,” Tom said, stepping over Zoe as she trotted past. His hand fell on Will’s arm. “Or maybe you thought I did."

Will stared at the hand stroking down his arm. He hadn’t gotten the wrong idea. But Tom had been drunk and demanding, didn't prep enough, and when Will made him bleed...

“What wrong idea was that?" Will asked.

There was that grin again. "I guess I went too fast? You're a big boy and—"

Some divine mercy in that moment chose to spare Will from hearing the rest of that sentence: his phone rang, Jack Crawford no less. Will used the chance to remove himself from Tom's touch. "Sorry, I really need to take this. I'll, uh, I'll call you and we can talk about it if you want."

Tom's face fell. "Promise?"

Will could feel the strain of insincere reassurance in his smile. He nodded.

Phone still ringing, he went inside and left the door ajar for the dogs. He hoped Tom wouldn't decide to wander back in with them. 

Jack Crawford sounded as tired as Will felt. "Will. We owe you an apology."

Will heard the rumble of Tom's bike engine and closed his eyes in relief. "Why? What happened?"

"We've had a woman come forth. She met a guy online, big and tall, built like a bear. He took her to the same hotel where we found the first victim. This was before Jodie Klaas."

Will's heart lurched in his chest. "What did he do?"

"She thought he might rape her, but he just held her down. Laid on her, the way she put it. She got free and ran."

"Does that mean we got him?"

"Not yet. But we've got a lot more to go on. Just thought you should know you were right."

Will hung up and sunk into a chair. Was there ever any satisfaction in being told he was right? 

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and his thumbs to the throbbing in his temples. Something else was churning behind his eyelids now, taking over from flashbacks to that morning's crime scene: Tom in his bed, hissing in pain, shoving Will off. Just a bit of blood on the sheets. The awkwardness and shame that ensued. 

Why had Will even bothered to try it with anyone again? It had been years since the last time, and it always ended the same. There were only two things Will's body elicited from others: delight, followed by discomfort. 

_You’re a big boy_. Did anyone ever say those same words to the killer of Jodie Klaas and two others? 

What a day. And to think, Will could have chosen to end it over dinner instead. Some place with low lights and low music, white tablecloths and glinting knives, clean and sharp like Hannibal's softly spoken questions. Hannibal drawing from Will things that were a relief to say, a mental bloodletting, a letting go of a long-held sigh. 

He pried his hands from his eyes and looked down at his palms. He remembered how they gripped at Hannibal's waist. The warmth, the satin, the shift of muscle. 

He wondered again what Hannibal had written about in his notebook. 

\---

Through the years, so far, no man had measured up. Hannibal had sized up specimen after specimen and found them all too meagre to match the breadth and depth of his appetite. 

And just as he would not allow subpar food to pass his lips, he saw no reason to let commonly-sized paramours into his bedroom and into his body.

Hannibal’s latest diversion-turned-disappointment had been a man called Ian, a violinist with the Baltimore Philharmonic. Having learned about Hannibal’s proclivities, Ian had boasted about his endowment, as many others had before him. The boasts were punctured on Hannibal’s first visit to the man’s bedroom. The violinist’s instrument, fully strung, topped out at no more than eight inches. 

Hannibal hadn't been entirely truthful with Will Graham: he'd already dissolved things with Ian some nights prior, over dinner at his fourth favourite bistro. He'd done so with grace and discretion but Ian, touched by a spell of intuition, correctly deduced Hannibal's reasons and made an unpleasant scene. 

The public spectacle was enough to make Hannibal consider a less traditional break-up. Perhaps he would arrange one final rendezvous and feed this third-rate violinist his own third-rate cock.

But for now, home after a long day, Hannibal had other means to enjoy what remained of his evening. 

He'd showered and slipped into a robe of cool Japanese silk. He dimmed the bedroom lights and put on music to please his ear. The ambiance had been set, his body felt warm and limbered, and now Hannibal's mind simmered with pleasant anticipation. It was time to make tonight's selection. 

He walked over to the lacquered curio cabinet stood on slim legs near the en suite door and felt for the small compartment at the back. The key he retrieved creaked in the cabinet’s gilded lock and helped pry open doors inlaid with cherrywood trees and mother of pearl cranes. The light inside flickered on to illuminate Hannibal’s private collection, the work of many years' curation.

On the highest shelf stood the smaller pieces, some centuries old and acquired at great expense: phalluses of bone and china, curving and bulging, painted and carved. The latest addition was an ivory shaft discovered in a French convent, dated to the eighteenth century. It had been polished to a shine and equipped with a plunger to simulate ejaculation. Hannibal had once tested the mechanism with his own semen. It worked surprisingly well. 

Beautiful little amusements, these objects were but mere appetisers for the main event, which awaited Hannibal on the lower shelves. There, the size of the implements increased considerably. Hannibal’s fingers skimmed over each one: the rippling steel plug made for Hannibal by the same man who made his knives; the anatomically faithful black leather shaft, rippling with veins, custom-ordered online. At the back of the bottom shelf, the dull silicone gleam of the stallion-sized dildo caught Hannibal's attention. He selected it alongside a small alabaster plug and a blue glass jar containing his favourite lubricant, and made his way to the bed.

He set out the toys and crawled onto the towel he'd laid over the bedspread. He stretched out on his side and hitched up the robe to expose himself, front and back. Already half-hard, he stroked himself idly, observing the act in the angled mirror hung opposite the bed.

Evenings like this were never propelled by recollections or fantasies of men Hannibal had known. There was nothing worthy or interesting to be gleaned from those encounters. Instead, behind his eyes or imagined in the mirror, Hannibal would see himself riding or mounted by versions of his own self: thick-cocked doppelgängers or animalistic incarnations, horned and clawed. Otherwise his mind pieced together abstract anatomies: thighs to grip, fingers to suck, hard spasming bellies to cover in come. 

He was fully hard now. With one hand he plucked at a nipple through the silk of his robe, and slicked up the vintage toy with the other. He had no need for his fingers. They had done their work in the shower, getting him loose and ready. He let his eyes close and perused his mind for the thought that would guide tonight’s self-pleasure.

He didn't expect to be guided back into his office. 

It was a surprise. But then Hannibal's day had been full of surprises, hadn't it? Surprise and curiosity, the two supreme agents of arousal, now saw him thinking back to his last appointment, even as he spread his thighs, arched his back and pushed in to the hilt with the alabaster dildo. 

Will Graham's mind had always stretched out before him like some unchartered island, with Hannibal's methods so far merely lapping at its shores. But here was the promise that Will's body also held secrets, ones that had brought him into communion with his girl-crushing killer. Hannibal had lied readily about his dinner arrangements, in hopes that food and wine and intimate conversation might draw from Will the nature of that tantalising surprise. 

But meanwhile he was still in his office, his mind refusing to budge from a singular moment inside the last hour of his day. He breathed out a slow sigh and moved the toy inside himself smoothly, swirling and angling, stoking his pleasure. 

He opened his eyes and peered at the black silicone cock laid out before him, waiting to fill him to satisfaction. He had expected to kneel above it and watch himself in the mirror as his body sank over it, swallowing up its considerable dimensions.

Not tonight. He drew out the smaller toy, cast it aside and slicked up all four of his fingers. He reached back and shoved in with a groan, without decorum or delay. 

And when his eyes closed again, this time he saw hands: surprisingly strong, surprisingly large, sliding from his waist, over the swell of his ass and then finger by finger into his body. Prying him open, more than Hannibal had ever let himself be opened. Seeking and searching, perhaps for secrets, those hands he'd written about in his notebook. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dildo in Hannibal's collection: https://collection.sciencemuseumgroup.org.uk/objects/co8421549/ivory-dildo-possibly-french-1701-1800-dildos-sexual-aids-penises


	3. The Bottom of the Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite what snarky bookmark comments may have said, I had more to say about size. So please enjoy more big dick Will. All my WIPs get finished. They just get finished slowly.

Before his next appointment, Will had to give himself five minutes in the car. 

His mind felt stretched between anticipation and dread. Part of that was down to the state of the case: closer, but not close enough. The killer and his burdensome body were still out there, looking for the next girl to smother. Will could just about deal with the aftermath of a crime scene. Waiting to find out if he’d get called out to one was about a hundred times worse. 

But then there was Hannibal Lecter. He wouldn't have forgotten last time, how close Will came to spilling his secret. More than that: he almost certainly formed hypotheses of his own and devised ways to test them. He didn't need to: Will was sure he would tell Hannibal about himself tonight, and he didn't know why.

After all, he hated others knowing. On the rare desperate occasion he let someone take him home, he'd leave the revelation until the last possible instant. Then, when they had him stripped and hard, he'd see their consternation or vulgar delight and know from that moment on he'd be nothing more to them than his goddamn erection. 

Hannibal greeted him at the door as he always did, though he’d shed his suit jacket, same as he had for his moth hunt. His waistcoat tonight was a venous red, the satin back gleaming like bare muscle. Will caught himself staring at it as he followed Hannibal inside. He remembered the feeling of his hands over the fabric, cool and warm all at once. A thought perched in his head and tickled him like the feet of a fly: that from now on, Hannibal would greet him at each subsequent session with one less article of clothing: shoes off, no belt, a shirt without a tie... 

He swatted at the thought and the warm thrill it spread. He slumped into his chair, gripped the armrests and tried to focus. 

"Jack caught a break,” he said, an opening designed to steer them towards the case and away from Will's physiology. "Guess the profile’s panning out." 

Hannibal braided his fingers over the front of his waistcoat and stretched out his legs, one folded over the other. The pose was unusual for him, somehow too casual, and it gave Will his focus. His socks today matched the waistcoat, deep red smoothed over those slim ankles. It was easier for Will to rest his eyes on the socks than on Hannibal's face.

"Your colleagues disparaged your assessment." Hannibal said. "Do you feel vindicated?”

"No room at the inn for vindication. All I can think of is his next one."

"Another girl gasping her last beneath the heft of your boy's body." 

Will felt the muscles in his jaw tense. He nodded. "I worry we're too late."

Hannibal was watching him more closely than usual. Something about his gaze made Will feel as if each of his limbs were being picked up and turned over for examination. "Last time we met, you spoke of restraint," he said. "Is restraint not in your killer's repertoire?"

"His new-found sense of purpose trounces restraint," Will said. "He’s discovered what he’s made for, even if he despises himself for it. He’s an avalanche crashing down a mountain. He has to do what he does."

"Pure kinetic energy, crush of death in his wake. And you, Will?"

Will’s fingers dug deeper into the armrests. "Me what?"

"Wherein lies your purpose?" 

The image of the last crime scene flashed through Will's head: the body on the bed, the girl's bulging eyes. Her gulping, gasping mouth, like the mouths of the trouts he caught for his freezer. 

"I guess Jack's found one for me."

"A purpose and a use for your mind. And your body?"

There it was. Of course Hannibal didn't forget. Will threw a glance at the windows, half-hoping another insect might turn up to change the trajectory of their conversation. "Best to keep a lid on some things," he said. "Just ask Pandora about her box."

"I'd rather hear about yours."

Will thought of Tom. Of the small handful of men and women who’d taken him to bed over the years. Smiles turned to grimaces, pleasure to hurt and discomfort. And still, he hadn't turned celibate. He hadn’t entirely given up. Maybe that was the problem. 

"I don't always keep the lid on," he admitted. 

"What did you see when you last looked inside?"

"What the killer of Jodie Klaas must see," Will said quickly and winced. The words came up like bile, their taste worse than he expected. All the dread and self-disgust he felt after his hook ups was suddenly in the room, sitting between him and his casually reclining therapist. 

Hannibal slid forward in his chair, leaning in until his elbows were on his knees and the distance between them narrowed. As if Will's words had drawn him in. "You see a body made to inflict hurt," he said, almost at a whisper. 

Will winced again. Yes. That was the gist of the dread sitting large between them. Hannibal was staring right through it, at Will. 

"You told me— you said we can reinterpret our bodies' design for good. But what if our histories say otherwise?"

Hannibal's gaze was bright, unblinking. It made him seem even closer than he was, closer than Will's fear. "Histories can be rewritten. Or erased if need be. If we are to rewrite yours, first you need to tell me how you hurt them, Will."

"I think you already know."

"I would very much like to hear you say it."

Will took in a shaky breath. He thought his fingers might sink through the leather of Hannibal's chair. "I don't fit," he said. "I'm not— comfortable."

Nothing changed in Hannibal's expression, but the pause that followed lingered for seconds. Will could hear the unsteady quality of his post-confession breath fill the cavernous opulence of Hannibal’s office. 

After a moment, Hannibal sank back into the same pose as before. "Reasonable adults often find compromises that allow them to work around such physical incompatibilities," he said. "You might forego penetration in favor of other acts. Or choose to be penetrated yourself."

The words sailed so smoothly out of Hannibal's mouth that a new wave of heat lapped at the back of Will's neck. He stared again at Hannibal’s outstretched legs. If he stretched out his own, would their feet touch? Could Will lift up Hannibal's pant cuff with the tip of his boot and see how far up those dark red socks travelled? 

"The offer's on the table," he said. "But they— they always ask for the same thing."

"Naturally. They see the prize of your size and believe themselves fit to claim it. And you oblige them. Just as your oblige Jack with your mind. Then what?"

Flashbacks of failed encounters spun through Will's head like a broken zoetrope. Tom and his lack of prep. The bartender who got his jaw unhinged trying to suck Will off. The woman who insisted on trying every position in the book but still hissed at Will's attempts to fuck her. He apologized so many times. 

"They end up hurt. Or at least uncomfortable. They can’t take it."

"And yet you keep trying. Do you secretly enjoy their discomfort?"

Will felt even warmer. "No. No, it's not like that. It never goes in—" he stammered and wiped at his nape and the heat spreading there. "It never goes very far."

"You stop when they ask you to, like a good boy."

"Mostly I try not to bother in the first place."

"Mostly. Not entirely. Even Pandora had hope in her box."

"I'd rather not call it that," Will replied with more bite than he'd intended. 

"Stubborn thing, hope. Whatever you call it, she still lurks in the shadows and sings her promises."

From his safe staring spot, Will dared to glance up at Hannibal's face. "What's her promise to me? I can't always hear her."

Hannibal met him with bright eyes and the smallest flicker of a smile. "That one day you'll be accommodated whole, without complaint or resistance."

Will shifted in his chair as if prodded. Christ. There was no point hiding from it anymore: the warmth he felt, his staring at Hannibal's long, elegant legs — it was arousal, slowly blooming in the hot swamp of his shame. And it only got worse with every word that came out of Hannibal’s mouth. 

"I can't expect—".

"...to take your pleasure from the body of another? It's not an unreasonable expectation. You say you are uncomfortable, like an ill-made chair. Have you considered it's others who have failed to accommodate you?"

Will's laugh surprised him. "That's— no. That’s not fair. I'm the one who’s the outlier."

"And for this you let yourself be punished, by trading your partners' physical discomfort for your mental anguish."

The truth of that startled Will like a sting. He dropped his eyes, back to their safe spot. "I can take it," he muttered. He wanted to get to his feet, to pace about and shake off the sense of being pinned in place by Hannibal's gaze, his words, the very shape of him before Will. 

Hannibal refolded his legs, one over the other, and regarded Will for a long moment. His braided fingers were on the move, fingertips rapping a light rhythm over his knuckles. "Have you considered surgery?" he said finally. 

It took Will a couple of seconds to parse that suggestion. "You mean... a reduction?"

“It's an uncommon procedure but a former colleague at John Hopkins did perform it on occasion. I’m familiar with the basics."

Silence followed, and Will didn't know what to do with the sudden onslaught of images rin his head. They must have been in Hannibal's head too. 

“How did your colleague assess his patients’ eligibility?" he asked, throat dry. 

"A simple physical examination." 

At that, Will had to look away, but the pictures in his head just kept on coming. No one had ever looked at his cock with a cold, clinical eye. Not even doctors could resist a raised eyebrow or quip. But not Hannibal. Hannibal wouldn't smirk or comment. He would kneel before Will with the same inscrutable expression he held now. Rolled up sleeves, latex gloves, measuring tape. A notebook and pen for more notes, but not about the contents of Will's head. Would Hannibal make a sketch his cock? Would he time how long it took Will to get hard? 

Will wanted it all, with a sudden and sharp urge. It wouldn’t happen. Neither of them were serious about it, but the idea unfurled in the air between them, vivid and bright, and replaced the ugly slumped shape of Will's self-loathing and dread. 

"Not sure I'd want to risk surgery," Will got out after a while. He felt like he needed an out. He couldn't sit here anymore, marinating in a mixture of self-disgust and want. "Like I said, maybe I should just give up trying. Would barely make a difference anyway."

Hannibal leaned in again, closer than before, almost to the edge of his seat. "But you have yet to turn monk. Is your own company so insufferable?"

"You mean—" Will faltered again, but he didn't need to finish. Of course Hannibal meant masturbation. And that was a whole other box he'd rather not peer into. "It's fine," he sighed. "As long as I'm not in the picture."

"You prefer to imagine others?"

"Or nothing at all." 

"Celibacy won't banish that pesky hope, Will. You must let your exceptional mind come to your body's aid and help you picture what could be."

"Easier said than done. My mind's on loan to Jack, remember? Bustling with bruised up girl bodies." 

Hannibal's eyes narrowed to a dark glint. His chin jutted forward and, for a moment, Will thought he was scenting the air between them. Suddenly he was up, moving past Will and towards his desk. Will twisted in his chair and stared after him, curiously relieved to see the back of that waistcoat again with its gleaming red fabric and neatly done up cinch. Another safe spot to rest his eyes on — though he caught himself wishing the cinch had been undone. 

"Your concerns are nothing that a novel external stimulus won't address," Hannibal said, leaning over a notepad and jotting something down. "Have you ever used a male toy?"

Will made an inarticulate noise, somewhere between a laugh and a cough. "I don't, uh— no. No, I haven't." 

He was lying. He'd bought a fleshlight some years ago and put it in the trash. It hurt his cock. 

"I didn't think so. Not to worry. I'm writing down an address for you. The place will be open late tonight. They should have what you need." 

\---

If he didn't do it now, he'd change his mind. He was still on autopilot, following simple orders. He pressed a knuckle into the store’s gold-plated buzzer. The door didn't chime or buzz in reply — instead, a recorded female voice sounded from above and nearly made him jump.

"Push hard to come in," the voice purred. 

At least Will was sure he was in the right place.  
  
The store's hushed interior was black and almost entirely devoid of displays but for the single illuminated glass case sat opposite the door. It must have doubled as a register. Will approached it with small creeping steps and stopped as soon as he could make out the case’s contents. The objects inside could be mistaken for curios or objets d'art, were it not for their shared characteristics: length, girth. Chrome, silicone, leather. 

Hannibal Lecter must have stood in this exact spot, looking at the contents of this very same case. Examining. Choosing. A prickle of heat marched up Will's spine and he sucked in a breath to suppress it. This felt like the worst place in the world to get a hardon. 

Something rustled nearby and pulled Will from his increasingly impure thoughts. A pale, sharp-featured woman surfaced from the black drapes cushioning the store's walls. Her dress, also black, could almost be called demure, were it not for the midnight blue corset laced tightly over it. Her nails, long and a matching blue, clacked against the glass counter. 

"Good evening," she said, and Will was relieved to hear she wasn’t the owner of the sultry voice that had let him inside. "May I help you?"

Will did need help: in getting out of the store quickly. That meant getting over his embarrassment and asking what Hannibal had told him to come here for. 

"I'm looking for something... larger," he got out before his throat closed up. He failed to make himself clear. "Larger" could have meant anything. 

The woman blinked slowly in a way that reminded Will of Hannibal. "I see. You're the one Dr. Lecter called about. One moment." 

She disappeared back into the black and left Will to imagine what Hannibal said on the phone. 

When she emerged again, the woman carried with her two oblong black boxes. She set them down on the counter and pried off the lids. Will shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled two steps closer to look. 

"These are the biggest models we have," the woman said simply. "As you can see, they're unadorned. Both are very durable and comfortable." 

Unadorned. Simple, snug slits to push himself into, as ordered by his elegant-legged psychiatrist. Will nodded towards the larger model.

The woman didn't smirk or quip, merely inclined her head in reply and proceeded to pack Will's selection into a glossy black carrier bag. "The instructions are inside, along with a sample of our most popular lubricant." She looked up to Will and waited. 

Will stared at her for a moment. “Oh right,” he muttered, and reached for his wallet. 

The woman took his credit card between two blue-tipped fingers. "The toy is dishwasher safe. And of course, no returns." 

\---

Some time after Will Graham left with his instructions, Hannibal's phone vibrated against his desk. He set down his wine glass and leaned over the display to read the message. He smiled.

Obliging a valued customer, Elena had texted the details of a recent sale. Hannibal held no doubts about the veracity of Will's confession — it only confirmed his hypothesis. But Will's selection in Elena’s store gave him a much desired sense of scale. 

Since Will's departure, a profound serenity settled over Hannibal's mind, the kind he could only associate with sailing into the harbor of a long sought-after destination. His purpose lay before him like the sparkling clear vistas of a new metropolis.

He took another swig of the Pouilly-Fumé and reclined in his chair. The leather whined softly, in answer to the crackle from the fire warming his back. He reached for the hand lotion he'd set out on the desk and closed his eyes. He let himself drift back to that evening's session. 

He would like to have encouraged the idea of a physical examination. It would have sated his curiosity, but it would have been too much, too soon. Will was easily overwhelmed and Hannibal preferred to dismantle his walls where Will least noticed. He was sure he’d made progress tonight.

Still, there was no reason not to imagine what could have been. Hannibal let out a sigh and took himself with long, easy strokes. His mind's eye was sharp, prone to painting vivid pictures, but in this moment he would not ask it to show him detail. No length or girth, no topography of veins. No gleam or drip of the glans. It would only spoil the revelation of days to come. 

But he could picture this: Will pressed up against Hannibal's desk, hands white knuckled as they gripped the edge. The twist and tremble of Will's protesting mouth, the electric wire tension in his limbs. The hot and honey-sweet scent of his wanton shame, same as the scent still lingering in the office and on the back of Hannibal's tongue. Hannibal on his knees, staking claim to that which Will's bedfellows had failed to fit into their faulty frames. 

Hannibal would have liked to find them, those fools who lacked dedication and adequate pain tolerance. He would gladly have snapped their necks. 

His strokes grew faster, harsher, forgetful of the growing burn of friction. Three folded fingers of his free hand reached for his mouth and pushed inside. He craned his head back, sucked hard and saw Will above him: still afraid, still pleading not to inflict harm, even as he rammed his cock with abandon down Hannibal's willing, choking throat. 

Hannibal came abruptly, with dizzying force, heels scraping the floor and hips off the chair. He only just had time to catch himself on his silk square. 

He straightened up by degrees and wiped at his mouth. He reached for his wine glass with a not quite steady hand and drank deeply until he drained it. 

His fantasy had caught him off guard, an unheard of thing. He hadn't gauged the depth of his own need: was he truly as deprived and desperate as Will? He catered so well to his other appetites that he failed to recognize what gaped beneath them: a naked hunger, barely fed with silicon and steel. 

He would have Will Graham in his bed — that in itself would not be a challenge. But what would Will and his sensitive mind see there, whether Hannibal wished to show it or not? 

He drummed out the fragment of some minuet against the desk, then reached for his notebook and pen. He had much to consider before he could welcome Will home. 


End file.
